“Hey Jeff,” said the dark-haired beauty sitting at the bar. “What’s the difference between God and a bartender?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“God doesn’t think he’s a bartender,” she said roaring with laughter.

Several customers on either side of her also laughed, leaving me to ponder whether or not I was the bartender she was referring to.

Several days later I was still thinking of that joke, if not the dark-haired beauty who uttered it. A local bar was closing soon and I headed in to take up one last glass of refreshment. Establishments closing are always sad. But then I thought of the line from the song “Closing Time” from the band Semisonic: “Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.”

I often liken bartending to surfing. Popularity is like a large wave that’s only going to last so long. Sometimes another wave steals its power, and sometimes the wave just trickles out slowly, dying with more of a whimper than a crash. Occasionally another wave comes along right behind, but more often they don’t and you’re left there treading water.

A savvy bartender has to guess when to switch waves. Wait too long and the wave will curl and crash and might just take you along with it.

Furthermore, it appears that as a marketable commodity, a bartender who already has job seems more desirable to new employers than one who doesn’t. It’s sort of the same logic that says someone who is already in a relationship is more desirable someone who is not.

There have been situations where I timed my wave jump just right and other times when I’ve been caught in the undertow.

The worst kind of closing is the long, slow, lingering, death.

I walked into the doomed bar on my final tribute visit, and I felt the pall immediately. The young blonde woman behind the bar was entertaining some of her friends at the corner of the bar. She made several shots – which looked to me like cosmopolitans – and the four of them, including the bartendress drank them down in one gulp. She leaned back and basked in the adoration of her little posse.

For a second she reminded me of Barbara Walters holding court over her own little version of “The View.”

Soon she cleared away the glasses, but collected no money.

Wiping the cranberry juice off her mouth, she wandered down to the other end of the bar, passing several patrons with expectant faces on the way. I looked up at the clock – 8:45 p.m. It was going to be a long evening.

This pattern would continue for some time. She would saunter down the bar and point at a guest here or there, seemingly without rhyme or reason, take the order, make the drink, then wander back down to her corner of friends. Another shot would be followed by another casual saunter. She was truly the captain of her own little ship, albeit a sinking one.

It was then that I thought my dark-haired beauty’s joke might need a change of gender.

I have worked in many nightclubs, and I know that these types of crowds can be somewhat antagonistic and confrontational. But I’ve also worked with enough bartenders to know when the crowd is not the problem.

As the hours wore on, Captain Barbara Walters became increasing less interested in waiting on people except for her own little gaggle.

“Can you get me a beer?” said an erstwhile college student to his fellow study-dodging friend standing behind me. “But don’t go to the chick bartender, she’s a real (witch).”

I thought that was a bit harsh, but then again, it was still early on and I wasn’t the one who had been waiting for a drink for 15 minutes.

I looked at the clock again – 11:15, two more hours till closing time. I looked at the sweat sheen on Captain Walters’ face and the increasingly threatening manner in which she approached her “guests.” I decided then that this was one shipwreck I wanted to avoid.

Having raised my one last glass to the venerable establishment, I decided to leave. I knew that in the coming days bottles of liquor would start to “disappear” and memorabilia would mysteriously vanish off the walls. I’ve seen it far to often.

As for the end of that particular night, I predicted that three things would happen: one, at least one college boy was going to get thrown out; two, a bartender was going to wake up with a hell of a hangover; three, a club owner was going to wonder why the previous night’s sales were so low.

“Closing time … you don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here.”

Jeff Burkhart is a bartender at a Marin bar/restaurant. His columns appear weekly in IJ Weekend. Contact him at lifestyles@marinij.com.